The Autobiography of an Indian Princess. Maharani of Cooch Behar Sunity Devee

I was born in 1864 at the old house known as “Sen’s House” which my great-grandfather built at Coolootola, a part of Calcutta where many of our family lived. My birth was always remembered in connection with a storm which occurred when I was six days old, a most important time to a Hindu baby, for then the Creator is supposed to visit the home, and write upon its forehead the little one’s fate. Perhaps people will think the stormy weather in the beginning signified a stormy future for me.

No girl could have been more fortunate in her parents than I. My father, the great Keshub Chunder Sen, is considered one of the most remarkable men India has ever produced, and my dear mother belonged to the best type of Hindu woman. Gentle, loving, and self-denying, her whole life was beautiful in its goodness and its simplicity.

The story of a great religious movement is not one which can be told at length in a book of memories. The religion for which my father suffered and which will be for ever connected with his name is the Brahmo or Religion of the New Dispensation, a religion of tolerance and charity. To quote my father’s words, “The New Dispensation in India neither shuts out God’s light from the rest of the world, nor does it run counter to any of those marvellous dispensations of His mercy which were made manifest in ancient times. It simply shows a new interpretation of His eternal goodness, an Indian version and application of His universal love.”

My readers do not perhaps quite know the meaning of Brahmo. A Brahmo is a person who believes in Brahmoe (One God). There is a Hindu god called Brahmuna, with four heads—Brahmoe is not that god. Some Western people may think Brahmins are the same as Brahmos. Once I remember an English lady saying to me: “I met some Brahmo ladies. …” I asked, “How did you know they were Brahmos?” “Because they wore lace on their heads.” Others have an idea that all advanced Indian ladies must be Brahmos.

If my readers by some good fortune have read ancient Indian history they will know what the real Indian religion was. There was one God and no belief in caste, in fact there was no such thing as caste. Caste meant a different thing in those days. It referred to character and life. A Brahmin lived a pure and holy life, and preached religion. Next to the Brahmins were the Katnyas; they were rulers, fighting people; they guarded their families, states, and countries. Then came the Sudhras, who served the others. But now there are hundreds of different castes, which makes people rather narrow-minded, for if one believes in caste one can never believe in universal brotherhood.

From the days of his youth my father was earnest and devout. He must have gone through much trouble of mind before he decided to fly in the face of family tradition and take a step which meant partial separation from his nearest and dearest. My mother was a member of a strict Hindu family, and their marriage had been solemnised with Hindu rites; but she did not fail him in the hour of trial. I have often heard my mother talk of the difficulties of those days, before she left Coolootola with my father. When he announced his approaching conversion, the “Sen House” was plunged into a state of agitation, and my mother was by turns entreated and threatened by angry and dismayed relatives. “Do not go against our customs,” urged the purdah ladies. “You are one of us. Your place is here. You must not renounce your caste. Imagine the results of such a dreadful sin.” When thus reproached, the young girl dreaded the horrors of the unknown. It may be that she wavered; but if so, it was not for long; and it was arranged that she should go with my father to be converted by the Maharshi D. Tagore. On the day fixed for their departure a note came. My father had written simply, “I am waiting.” Then my mother knew she must decide her future for good and all. All the relations were screaming, crying, and threatening my mother, saying that she would bring disgrace on the family by leaving the house, and thus losing her caste. But it did not hinder her, because of those three simple words—“I am waiting”—the call of Love. When she realised their meaning, she threw off the fetters of the past and went forth to meet her destiny. There was a round staircase used by the purdah ladies where she knew my father awaited her. The trembling girl hurriedly traversed corridors and verandahs until she reached it. Fearfully she descended the dark steps, her heart beating with fright, until at last she saw my father. He said quietly: “I want you to realise your position fully. If you come with me, you give up caste, rank, money, and jewels. The relations who love you will become estranged from you. The bread of bitterness will be your portion. You will lose all except me. Am I worth the sacrifice?”

My mother had had a most beautiful and wonderful vision, which is too sacred for me to relate. This gave her strength and courage, she did not hesitate but descended the steps and joined my father. It was a moment too wonderful for words. They looked into each other’s eyes. He read perfect faith and courage in hers. She saw in his a love which gave her confidence to face the future. They passed down the corridor and found themselves in the first courtyard opposite the great entrance, where the durwans (gatekeepers) were standing on guard.

Twice my father ordered the durwans to open the door, but they did not move. It was very still in the courtyard. My mother was frightened.

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